Chapter 3 – Na Fianna Nua’s Counterstrike
Galway – Omega Pact Safehouse, 23:14
Rain hammered the cracked slate roofs of Galway’s old docklands as Salty’s convoy rolled through narrow cobbled streets. Three matte-black Hilux pickups crawled in formation, headlights killed, engines humming low like prowling wolves.
Inside the lead vehicle, Salty sat cradling his H&K 416 rifle, the matte black finish slick with condensation. He ran a thumb down the custom engraved words along the upper receiver:
“Éire Abu – Ireland Forever.”
🔫 Weapons Check
Sarah, sitting beside him in tactical rig, checked her Glock 19 Gen5, racking the slide with smooth precision. “Ten loaded mags, two spares, one chambered,” she whispered.
“Good girl,” Salty growled approvingly.
Behind them, Ruairí O’Donnell loaded his Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun, sliding 12-gauge slug after slug into the tube with quiet satisfaction.
“Slug, slug, slug, buckshot, slug,” he muttered.
Salty raised an eyebrow. “Organising your ammo by type again?”
“Of course,” Ruairí replied cheerfully. “I like to know which hole I’m blowing in their chests.”
In the rear truck, Niamh Flynn clutched her SIG MCX Rattler SBR, small enough to sling under her oversized waterproof coat. She exhaled, checking the 30-round mag, then whispered her usual pre-op prayer:
“Dear Lord, don’t let me wet myself if they throw a grenade at me again.”
⚔️ Approach
They parked a block away under the cover of an abandoned textile mill. The team moved out in two-by-two formation, boots silent on rain-slick cobbles. Sarah led with Salty at her back, Ruairí and Niamh covering their six.
The safehouse ahead was a decaying Georgian terrace with blacked-out windows and Omega’s distinctive wolf-head sigil painted discreetly near the doorbell.
“Thermal shows six heat signatures,” Niamh whispered into comms. “Two on the ground floor, four in the basement lab.”
Salty’s gravelly voice crackled in their earpieces. “Right. Ruairí, breach. Sarah, with me. Niamh, stay close and don’t wet yourself.”
“Ha bloody ha,” Niamh grumbled under her breath, flicking her safety off.
💥 The Breach
Ruairí slung his Benelli and pulled out a Halligan tool, wedging it under the rotting frame. With one sharp wrench, the door cracked off its hinges. Sarah swept in first, Glock raised. Two Omega guards sat at a table with laptops and pizza boxes scattered around.
They froze in stunned silence.
Sarah smirked, weapon trained on the first man’s forehead. “Go ahead, mate, finish your slice.”
Salty stepped past her, raising his H&K. “Or drop the pizza and lie on the ground before I decorate that wall with your brain sauce.”
Both men complied instantly, hands behind their heads, pizza crusts tumbling to the floor.
🔥 Basement Assault
Down the narrow stone stairs, muffled voices rose from the underground lab. Salty kicked the door open, and Ruairí fired his Benelli. The tungsten slug punched through the first guard’s chest, spraying blood across the flickering monitor banks.
Sarah dropped another with two precise taps to the chest, her Glock barking in the confined space.
The final two Omega operatives lunged for their weapons but Niamh, screaming “NOT TODAY, SATAN!”, riddled them both with controlled bursts from her Rattler. Casings clattered onto the concrete floor as silence fell.
💻 The Loot
Sarah moved swiftly to the racks of hard drives, popping them free into her tactical satchel. Ruairí rifled through paperwork, whistling at the stacks of cash shrink-wrapped in industrial plastic.
“€200 notes, €500 notes… lads, looks like the EU did have a use after all.”
Salty grunted, planting a block of Semtex on the main server rack. “Let’s go. Omega will send reinforcements.”
As they climbed the stairs, Niamh whispered, voice trembling with adrenaline.
“I didn’t wet myself this time.”
Salty patted her helmet as they emerged into the moonlit rain. “Good girl. Next time, try not to scream like a goat in heat.”
“Hey!” she protested, but couldn’t hide her relieved grin.
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